Fandoms: Torchwood/Robin Hood
Present For/Prompt: unsentimentalf | Horse (I may have interpreted this slightly loosely)
Challenge/Prompt: crossovers100 018. Black
Word Count: 1000
Summary: “Are you one of Hood’s men?”
Author’s Notes: My first reaction when I got the request was WTF? and then I thought about it and it became OMG yay! ‘Cause, you know: a) the hawt, and b) the leather. Ahem. And yeah, I’m adding this to my set for crossovers100. I’m also slightly tempted to write a
The Rift is a bastard.
Owen says this aloud to the trees, listing every obscenity he knows and getting himself generally worked-up. The trees remain frustratingly composed, sending pretty trails of dappled light across the forest floor.
Finally, he gives up on being angry at the Rift, and decides to go and find out where he is.
The forest is frustratingly without helpful signs or footpaths or anything, and Owen stumbles around for a while getting increasingly lost. He begins to wonder if maybe he should have stayed where he was, in the hope Tosh will be clever and rip the Rift back open again; but rescue could take days.
So. He walks.
The silence is oppressive, and Owen becomes horribly aware that wherever he is, there’s no traffic anywhere near. There’s no signal on his phone, but that could mean anything.
He hopes that he’s actually still on Earth; that would be nice.
Eventually, just as he’s starting to go a little stir-crazy and wondering whether he’ll have to start eating tree bark and fungi to survive, he hears what sounds suspiciously like hoof beats.
Owen runs toward the noise, stumbling over roots and crashing through bushes and reminding himself exactly why he likes working in a big concrete underground cavern and never having to go outside. He finally bursts out into a clearing.
A man turns, clearly startled. His eyes narrow as he looks at Owen, and before Owen can say anything, he’s drawing a sword.
Owen does not like swords. Big alien raygun things, he can deal with. Even bog-standard Earth firearms are ok. But swords… swords are not.
“Who are you?” the man demands.
“I’m lost,” Owen replies.
The man strides across the clearing towards him; he moves with an easy predatory grace and Owen is, in spite of the fact he can shoot the man dead before he ever gets to him, a little afraid.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he says. His tone is neutral but the threat under the words is only too clear.
“I’m Owen,” Owen says. “I’m… a traveller.”
The man fixes him with an icy blue-eyed stare. “You’re in Sherwood Forest,” he says, after a moment.
Sherwood Forest? Oh fuck.
He finds the tip of the sword at his throat; he’s got good reflexes but he didn’t see the other man move.
“Are you one of Hood’s men?”
Owen seriously hates the Rift.
He’s not entirely sure how he came to be tied up in a dungeon and he’s less than happy about this turn of events. The man who dragged him here has at last identified himself as Sir Guy of Gisborne, which does not comfort Owen in any way, and apparently he’s landed right in the middle of a legend. Which is just perfect and the teasing will never stop when he gets home. If he gets home.
“I keep telling you,” he gasps, as yet another bucket of freezing, bitter water is dumped over his head, “I don’t know who the hell Hood is.”
A lie; but a necessary one. And if he goes home with the Black Death, he is going to be very unimpressed.
Guy wears a lot of black leather, which creaks in a way that is… interesting, and is really wearing far too much eyeliner for someone who isn’t in a nightclub. Owen would probably appreciate this more if he wasn’t being sort of tortured, and is seriously starting to wish he’d been found by Robin Hood instead because then at least there probably wouldn’t be torture.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Owen is tempted to ask if that’s a pick-up line and then decides not to antagonise the man who has his life – or, at least, his ability to enjoy life with all his limbs intact – in his hands.
“I’m a traveller,” he insists.
And notes that Guy isn’t looking at him, but looking at Owen’s leather jacket, which got dumped on the filthy floor when they were tying him up. He has an interesting look on his face, and Owen tries not to notice that the man looks pretty, well, good in profile, because that will not end well.
Guy nods curtly and walks out.
The flickering torchlight is giving Owen a migraine and he can’t tell how long he’s been there when Guy eventually comes back.
He stands and stares at Owen some more, until he starts to feel really uncomfortable, and then raises a hand, removing the black leather glove from it.
Owen flinches. But all Guy does is curl a cold hand under Owen’s chin, forcing him to look up, turning his head from side to side. His thumb brushes Owen’s lips in a way that’s probably deliberate, and Owen has a bad feeling about this.
“Teeth,” Guy orders, and Owen obediently bares them.
If he ends up getting sold into some kind of pre-medieval sex slave thing he is going to be pissed.
“If you agree to work for me, I’ll set you free,” Guy tells him evenly.
Owen swallows, too hard; Guy’s hand is still against his cheek.
“Taking care of my horse, cleaning my weaponry…” Guy smiles at last, and it’s a chilling sight. “Whatever I want, whenever I want it.”
It’s weirdly like being recruited to Torchwood, actually. Guy lets his thumb trail slowly across Owen’s mouth again, and, yep, having déjà vu.
Owen manages not to say: I think my boss would really like you.
It’s not like he has much choice (at least, that’s what he tells himself).
“You will wear this,” Guy informs him, handing him what appears to be a slightly less full-on version of Guy’s leather outfit.
Owen prays really hard for Tosh to fix this as soon as possible; at least until he glances up and sees the downright filthy look in Guy’s eyes.
And he thinks maybe it’ll be ok if they don’t rescue him immediately after all.